Sunday
by memory's marionette
Summary: On Sunday, he realizes that he has never told her that he loves her.


Summary: On Sunday, he realizes that he has never told her that he loves her.

* * *

**Sunday**

~by purple phantasms

* * *

Monday

It's around nine o'clock at night when he suddenly decides to walk into an antique bookshop right outside of Central Park. He doesn't know why he does, since he's got a plane to catch the very next morning at some unearthly hour, but it's almost as though there's some sort of unknown force pulling him in.

Ian strides in and instantly feels out of place with his custom-fitted suit and perfectly-coiffed hair in this cosy little place. It's enough to make him want to run out again and never look back, but for no rhyme or reason, he's gravitating towards a bookshelf that holds a plethora of books on archaeology.

To him, it makes little sense, because he's a businessman, not someone who frolics about in the dirt looking for fossils and stones and what-have-you. His insatiable curiosity gets the best of him, however, and he ends up entering that tiny aisle anyway.

That's when he sees her, with her familiar jade-green eyes and red hair —

— and suddenly, it all falls into place.

* * *

Tuesday

It's a dreary Tuesday morning when she joins him for a cappuccino at Starbucks. Amy's heaving along a bag full of books that appear to weigh around three kilograms, and by what she assumes to be a miracle, he offers to help her carry it.

Amy has known Ian for long enough to know that he never offers to do others a favour without asking for one in return; so she eyes him warily and asks, "What's the catch?" He's got absolutely no idea what she's talking about. "What do you want from me?" she tries again.

Ian quirks an eyebrow. "The one time I try to be nice, you look at me as though I'm going to murder you in your sleep."

"Well, aren't you?" she shoots back.

He exhales loudly and says, "The end is not nigh, Amy, just because I offered to carry your bag."

She's still not convinced, however, and if it isn't for the fact that she's Amy, he would have retracted his offer a long time ago. "And you're really doing this out of the goodness of your heart and with my welfare in mind?" He nods in return, and she beams. "Thanks. You know, you can be a pretty helpful friend at times."

Ian's well aware that 'friend' holds wonderful connotations —

— so he wonders why the word hurts.

* * *

Wednesday

Wednesday is the day that he takes her to a posh country club in the Hamptons. Truthfully, there are many others whom he could have asked to accompany him, but he likes the notion of spending time with her. And she's hardly going to tell him this, but the feeling is very much mutual.

At first, she's enjoying the well-manicured lawns and fabulous facilities that the place has to offer; that's before Amy realizes that Ian is, in fact, taking her to the stables to ride a well-bred mare. Amy's fine with any other activity that the one percent usually indulge in, such as playing golf and whatnot, but equestrianism is a complete taboo with her.

According to her, the beasts are "dangerous on both ends and crafty in the middle", and she refuses to go near them. He finds it amusing that she's got something in common with Sherlock Holmes and decides to put her out of her misery by taking her to club's library instead.

Somewhere along the way, she slips. In the blink of an eye, he manages to catch her by her wrist, effectively preventing her fall; he pulls his hand away just as quickly.

Disappointment doesn't show on her face, though it's felt in her heart —

— because, honestly, she would have liked to hold his hand for slightly longer.

* * *

Thursday

No one knows what's taking the two of them so long to just start dating already, because judging by the amount of time they always spend together, you'd think that they'd already be engaged by now. As it so happens, it's a fine Thursday afternoon when Ian finally asks her to go out with him.

Of course, he's far too proud to actually ask her in a straightforward manner like normal people would, so he opts to send her a short note instead. The paper is passed back and forth between them before they finally settle on a designated time and place.

It's a childish way of communicating, but they always seem to transform into six-year-olds when together.

Because they make each other feel _young_ and _free _—

— _immortal_ and _invincible_.

* * *

Friday

Their wedding takes place on a Friday in a magnificent church. She knows that the church is beautiful and that everyone is happy for them; she's doesn't know much else, however, because she's not particularly paying attention to anyone or anything other than to her husband-to-be.

And honestly, even if she wants to, she doesn't think she can; in that moment, he is all that matters, and it feels like the entire world is hers for the taking.

The priest utters the words "'til death do us part", and they happily repeat after him —

— but they know innately that their story will last for long after that.

* * *

Saturday 

They're considered the golden couple by those they know, and more often than not, they're labelled as 'the lucky ones'. It's a fact that seems hard to dispute, because they treat each other so well, to the point where some of her friends wonder how her husband can afford to keep showering her with so many trinkets of affection and attention. Amy wonders what they'll think if she tells them that Ian gives her so much more than just that.

Because he gives her many pretty things —

— and a thousand maybes.

* * *

Sunday

On Sunday, it occurs to him that he has never told her "I love you."

He doesn't know why he hasn't, but he plans to amend that now. So he sidles up to her during breakfast and starts to stutter his way through his confession.

Amy has a bewildered expression on her face, because Ian personifies the word 'glib' and he never stammers at all; from his incoherent gibberish, she concludes that he's either on the verge of having a heart attack or that he's just bought a parliament of baboons. The latter doesn't seem very plausible, however, so she discards that notion and rushes over to the telephone to call 911.

"What are you doing?" he asks, stunned that she's calling an emergency hotline just because he's trying to tell her how he feels. He knows that he's hardly phenomenal in the EQ department, but he's quite sure that it doesn't warrant a trip to the doctor, in any case.

She stares at him. "Aren't you having a heart attack?"

"What? No!" he blusters. "I'm trying to tell you something important."

"Which is?"

Ian barely gets the pronoun out before he decides to just write it out and pass her the blasted note. She looks at the three words he has penned down, and her lips curve into a smile.

It's a smile that tells him that she feels the same way about him.

Their gazes lock momentarily, and finally, he understands why he deemed the proclamation of his feelings unnecessary in the first place.

On Sunday, he realizes that he has never told her that he loves her —

— but it's alright, because she has always known.

* * *

A/N: Based off the poem whose name I forgot. (The one that goes "Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace...") I don't know why I wrote this; I suppose it's because I'm sick with the flu and feel horrendous at the moment, which somehow translates into wanting to write (bad) fluff. If you're wondering why I chose Sunday, it's because I was born on Sunday. (Yay!)


End file.
